Murder
by chzahradsfdas
Summary: He didn't expect to kill anyone that day. But he felt threatened and scared, and it just... happened.


It was a day like any other.

A blonde man exits the building on 11th St. and Ave. B. He is going to visit his roommate at work, see him in action, something they liked to do every once in a while. They were teaching each other about what they did, because that was the only thing about each other they didn't understand after all this time. But that was changing.

He is stopped passing in an alley near the lot by a rather shady-looking character. The man has a hood pulled over his head and sunglasses, even though it is overcast.

"Where's my money?"

"What are you talking about? We don't work together anymore. I don't owe you anything."

"You still owe me from your girlfriend, Sunny," the man says with a sneer, holding the younger guy against the wall.

"She didn't owe you, either, Jace—"

"That ain't my name anymore, kid, any more than Sunny's yours. Now where's my money?"

"M-my name isn't Sunny, you just started calling me that when—"

"Where is it, kid?"

"I don't have any money."

"Quit the bullshit!"

"Why would I lie to you, Jason, we were friends—"

"That's not my name! _Where's my money?_"

And that was the moment the blonde has been dreading as the man yanks a gun from under his jacket, holding it against the blonde's head with an arm around his neck.

"If you don't hand it over, Sunny," the man says, gritting his teeth, "You know where this goes."

He is terrified. He has no trouble admitting that. He shoves an arm back, _hard,_ into the man's stomach. It is enough to make him lose his grip on both him and the gun, and "Sunny" dives for it, catching hold and rolling out of the way as the man tries to stomp on his fingers.

He rolls into a standing position, pointing the gun at the man with shaking fingers.

"If you let me go, Jace, I won't have to use this."

The man is backed against the wall now, hands up as the blonde kid inches his way closer. There is a cocky smile on his face.

"You don't have the guts."

The blonde returns the sarcastic smile.

"Oh, yeah?"

"_Oh,_ yeah. You're a fucking coward, and you always have—"

At least he died with a smile on his face.

"Never call me a coward."

It isn't until he looks at the blood splashed onto his jacket that it sinks in. He drops the gun.

He'd killed the man.

He feels a strange relief.

That was the least of it.

He also feels dizzy, euphoric, angry.

He's fucking terrified.

"Oh, fuck."

He runs a hand through his hair, smearing more blood on his face and hands.

He runs home. Runs, full-out, not stopping, not looking where he's going. The lot is empty, and it's only up the stairs and home from there.

His first stop is the bathroom. He takes one look at his face in the mirror and throws up, right there in the sink, clinging to the edge, his knuckles white.

"I killed the man," he whispers to his reflection, to the blood, the man's blood, smeared on his face and in his hair.

He wipes his jacket down first. It's just leather, and the blood comes off easily, though it didn't help that with every wipe, his stomach churns.

He washes his hands and scrubs his face almost raw, his eyes tearing and his throat clenching as he tries not to throw up again.

He tries in vain, because when his face is only half-clean, he leans, to the toilet this time, vomiting more than he would have thought possible. He didn't know he'd even had that much in his stomach.

He flushes, leaving the seat up, just in case, then continues washing his hands in nervous silence, his thoughts racing.

"Shit!" he exclaims suddenly, realizing that leaving the gun at the scene of the crime could have been the stupidest thing he'd ever done. He has a record, they have his fingerprints, they could find him.

He changes his shirt. The blood splashed on the front sickened him.

He throws on his jacket, too, though he'd never see it the same way again, and heads out.

The first place he goes is back to that alley.

It has only been ten minutes. The place is virtually undisturbed, which means no one must have found the body yet.

True, it's hard to see anyway, slumped behind an old Dumpster with so much garbage around it that the corpse looked like just another piece of trash.

The blonde grimaces as he tip-toes through, stooping to scoop up the gun and making sure the safety is on before he sticks it inside his jacket.

From there, he walks on to his original destination.

He'd throw the gun off the roof, he thought, and then it'd be like nothing had happened.

Never mind that he was a murderer.


End file.
